


L'Histoire De Le Contact

by Verabird



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blindfolds, Blowjobs, Breath Control, Chains, Choking, Double Oral Penetration, Humiliation, M/M, Manacles, Object Insertion, Slapping, Spanking, Toulon Era, Whipping, crying Javert, horrible things happen to your faves, sadist!Javert, shameful use of jesus imagery, someone has the bright idea to put a collar on Javert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6573589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/pseuds/Verabird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toulon.</p><p>Javert doesn't mean to be an easy target, but unfortunately a prisoner has his eyes on him, filthy eyes and licked lips and burning urges. Javert becomes desired, he can be destroyed and broken. Valjean is left to pick up the remaining pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Histoire De Le Contact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



There’s dust beneath his boots and Javert wrinkles his nose in anguish as he watches painstakingly polished leather grow faded with the scuff. The other guards are lazy, they kick their boots to the ends of their beds and leave the mud to cake overnight, some of them even drag the dirty boots onto the sheets with them. It’s a known trick to save time in the mornings, especially when one has the morning shift, but it’s something Javert can’t bare to see. The other guards have made his vicious scrubbing with a rag and polish into a joke of sorts, but it’s not the sort of thing Javert has time to worry about. He’s not here to make friends, or even acquaintances. There are people he needs to please, himself being one of them, and apart from that he’s uninterested. Patrols of the dry work site leave dust under his nails and in his hair. The senior guards wear gloves and most have their hair short. Javert wears his long and combed out into a neatly tied ribbon, separating him as far as possible from the close cropped bagnards. It is better here than out among the sleet of the galleys. At least here where the prisoners are set to digging earth and turning the wheel, his uniform is only as damp as the sweat of the day. The smell of salt is disagreeable to Javert.

The prisoners are being marched out into the courtyard and together they make a miserable sight. Chained together at the neck and right leg, shuffling forward with a rhythmic clink, heads turned towards the filthy ground. One of the guards already has a tarred rope looped in his fist and his shoulders are twitching with the desire to swing. Javert does not agree with the punishments delivered. These men are less than he is, beasts at the worst, but he will only deliver what is deserved. He falls into step along with the rest of the guards and leads a contingent towards a collection of the largest stones. The strongest of the men will take the boulders and collapse them before carting them to the less adept prisoners who will crush them further. There is a wheel here as well and Javert will see to making sure it is turned at the appropriate speed over the next ten hours or so. Other guards use rifles or ropes or truncheons to direct their prisoners, Javert uses his hands and keeps his weapons firmly tucked into his belt. The fingers of some guards seem to bleed with violence, constantly shivering with the need to inflict pain and punishment, Javert does not consider himself worthy of bestowing such deliverance. Not yet at least.

A man begins the steady static walk to nowhere on the wheel, and the rest of the men are handed wooden picks. They have the smallest slithers of metal welded into the tips, enough so that if a man chips at a rock for an hour, eventually it will split and he may prize it open with the curved end of the pick. Unsuitable for weapons, hardly suitable for the work, but they will suffice. Javert doesn’t keep time. He can’t afford a time piece and he works too far from the nearest guard who can. He traverses his day by the sun and the bell. He estimates a few hours have gone by when he has to wipe the first beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. In the distance he can see a prisoner being laid into with a knotted rope. He is not working hard enough. His cries ring across the courtyard, flying straight into his area and echoing through the rocks. The men pause in their work for a split-second, as if acknowledging their fellow convict’s pain, and then it’s back to work. Javert catches the eye of one of the prisoners, the numbers 35796 are stitched haphazardly in a patch across his front. 35796 has split knuckles and rough palms, his wrists aren’t manacled but a thick line of black dust covers the skin there giving the impression that they are in the right light, his lids hang heavy beneath a deep set frown. Javert challenges the gaze, but 35796 doesn’t look away. 35796 licks his lips, cleans them of dust, then he raises his pick and smashes it into the rock in front of him.

* * *

 

 

The convicts are chained back together when they take their midday rest. The break is a gift bestowed upon them by the establishment, it is not meant to be comfortable, only serviceable. Javert doesn’t lean back against the wall like his fellow guards. He stands ramrod straight, eyes sharp as a hawk, still observing, gaze never stealing away from the line of convicts as he raises a pouch of water to his lips. Stale bread, leftovers from the town bulked up by the prison’s bakery, are passed between them. The larger men break great hunks off for themselves before handing the loaf further down the line. The poor man on the end barely has any crumbs left, but he is too small and weak to complain. The guards see it all.

Heat prickles against Javert’s temples, and something else, a sickening feeling, akin to being watched. He lets his eyes slide down the line and sure enough there are piercing eyes upon him. They stare back as a challenge, dark and old, and this time 35796 doesn’t look away. He gnaws the bread, licks each finger clean, individually and with great purpose, all while maintaining the sordid gaze.

“You could have him flogged for insolence.” The voice snaps Javert out of the gaze and he feels weak for having broken first. A guard has followed his stare and murmurs amused in his ear. “You could flog him yourself.”

Javert’s lips curve into a snarl. The guards all toy with justice so easily, they whip the men like misbehaving dogs, as parents’ rough hands discipline naughty children. There is no sense, none of the arbitrary punishments are logged, the system lacks order and Javert wants no part of it. He takes his truncheon from his belt and the guard smiles and leans back against the wall to watch, he seems satisfied, ready for the show. Javert merely slams it twice into the metal post at the end of the wall, signalling the end of break. The guard raises an eyebrow, unfolds his arms, but says nothing as they step back into the afternoon routine.

The sun rests above the highest point of the prison, speared by a black iron weather vane. Javert stands next to a barrel of water, the surface appears oily, glistening with purples and greens in the sunlight. A wooden cup floats just below the murky surface. The guards drink from their own pouches, but they cannot deny working men water, so the prison provides this. Javert wouldn’t allow any sane man to drink such filth, but he has so very little power here.

“Give us a drink.”

The voice is rough and comes from a swollen throat. Javert is sure he’s heard 35796 speak before, he must have done, but it still comes as a surprise. Close up the convict appears much younger, the crow’s feet that grace his eyes and cheeks look deep set because of the dust rather than age. What remains of the cropped hair is a light copper without a hint of grey, his cheeks are rugged and weathered but not leathery, and his lips while chapped are plenty red.

“The cup is there,” Javert says, short, clipped. “You may fetch it yourself.”

35796 ducks the cup into the water and brushes the surface with his fingers. He places the tips to his temples, allowing a steady trickle of cool water to run down his face. Then he downs the rest and swallows hard. Javert is aware of the man staring at him, but he refuses to be moved.

“Lonely job what with no one to talk to.”

“I have no need of conversation.”

“Yet here you are talking to me.”

Javert steels himself and sets his jaw. He will be firm, the convict is trying to goad him, well Javert will teach him that a guard cannot be goaded.

“Back to your work, 35796.” The number rolls off his tongue, but remains lingering on the tip for long after. Javert assigns the convict to the wheel, only so the dark beams will hide those eyes and Javert can shield himself. It is cowardly, he knows, but he is grateful for the peace.

* * *

 

Javert is assigned to a different part of the courtyard the next day. The men are quieter here, slowly crushing rocks into tiny pieces. If Javert squints they almost look like children playing with their toys. Old and ragged children with burnt skin and cracked knuckles. That evening, the convicts form their line and the guards move among them, clapping the chains together and leading them to the cells. Javert walks with his head held high, he is taller than most of these men by at least a head, and he meets no gazes.

As he reaches the back of the line a hand closes round his forearm, the nails dig in leaving dirty tracks on the blue cloth. Javert stares, too startled to react. How dare one of these men, these beasts, touch him. He glares and opens his mouth, forms the words carefully in his mind so he doesn’t stutter. “Remove your hand at once,” He says, far too calm compared to the turmoil inside his chest.

35796 smiles, all teeth, and doesn’t remove his hand. “Bet you missed me today,” 35796 drawls. His tongue runs over his lips and Javert’s chest clenches. He’s certain he has no business with this convict, yet somehow he has become a target for his proclivities. The convict’s life is as lonely as the guard, and they turn a blind eye when they huddle close together at night for protection or more, but for a convict to approach a guard in this way is unthinkable. Javert recognises these signs, but cannot process them, and he’s aware of the hand still burning through his sleeve and into the skin beneath.

“Unhand me,” He hisses, teeth clenched. The line has stopped, the convict in front is turning to see about the fuss and the one behind is rightly averting his gaze. “At once.”

“I do not think so. I know you do not like to use force against us, I wonder what will break that dark.” 35796’s eyes slide from Javert’s face, seem to linger on his chest for a moment, then drift lower. Javert starts, pulls back, but the man who breaks rocks all day is stronger than him and holds tighter.

“Moineau! Leave him. You only make things worse for the rest of us.”

Javert looks to see the convict in front. The prisoner bites his lip nervously, but the rich tone of his voice is strong and his eyes are wide with purpose. Javert catches the brown for just a moment before they slide to the floor and then he notices that 35796 has dropped his hand.

“You are lucky they make us wolves travel in packs. One day we will be alone and then what will you do?” 35796 grins, a sinister thing and Javert swallows instinctively.

“Eyes front 35796,” He barks, aware that he has been standing in silence. “Both of you!” This he addresses to the other convict. “Do not let me catch you turning from your place again 24601.”

Javert doesn’t need rescuing, and he refuses to be saved. The convicts may have their inner hierarchies and chain of command, but ultimately they must all respect him. He bristles at the thought of a convict coming to his aid. 35796 will need to be disciplined if he speaks out of turn again, Javert will make certain of that now, he will no longer be so lenient. He might punish 24601 at the same time while he’s at it, just to drive it home. Javert does not need to be saved.

* * *

 

35796 is quieter now, but the subordinance seems to have spread. Javert catches them in their breaks, whispering and laughing together, and then they glance at him. The eyes don’t stop at his face, they spread all over his body, and Javert feels like a pinned butterfly. He runs a finger under his collar and brushes sweat from his own eyes. He won’t let them get to him.

It is midmorning when two of them come to drink from the barrel. They glance at each other, smirks between the pair of them, before challenging Javert.

“Good morning,” One of them says in mocking politeness, an older man with scarred forearms. Javert ignores him as his fingers curl into fists. “You must be a lonely man, you must be bored, perhaps you need a distraction.”

The other convict snorts and gulps down water. Javert can feel his cheeks grow hot beneath his whiskers, and the flush spreads to his neck. He averts his eyes still and waits for the men to pass.

“Careful Girard,” The other says, amused. “Moineau has claimed him already.”

They laugh together and Javert is increasingly aware that he’s backed well into a corner of the courtyard. By the time he called for help from one of the other guards it would take several minutes for them to reach him. More than enough time for serious injury. He is good with his truncheon, despite not wielding it as freely as some of the other guards, he practises daily, but he is unsure how many he can hold off by himself.

“Well, he has claimed a part of him at least.”

“Away with you!” Javert’s chest clenches as his voice cracks, losing all resonance. The men laugh, and the second convict tosses the wooden cup back into the barrel. A few drops of water splash over the edge and land in the dust. Javert stares at the dark spots until he can see the convicts are back to their work at the rocks. When he looks up his eyes find 35796 easily. The man is staring directly at him.

 

* * *

 

Javert keeps his distance as he makes his way up the line. Far enough back that a reaching arm cannot even graze him. He feels like a coward, but he doesn’t want to take the risk, and he feels his heart begin to thump harder in his chest as he nears 35796. Another guard is close by on the other side of the line and this gives him a little strength.

“I seem to have competition.”

The voice is slimy, it stops Javert in his tracks. 35796 is smirking, and now Javert can see that 24601, just a pace in front, is wincing. Does he fear for 35796’s safety as he goads a guard? Javert will not allow the convict to care for his own safety instead so this must be it.

“Let me have you alone, Javert.” Javert starts. The guards are meant to be faceless beings, blank shielded eyes of the law. He both wants and doesn’t want to know how the convict got hold of his name. “If I get you alone I can show you why it’s best to choose me. You’ll forget all the others soon enough, my mouth is more talented than any man here-”

The smack is loud, the crack of wood on teeth, and then 35796 is crying out and facing the dust. Javert hasn’t moved, but the guard opposite has his truncheon raised, the stick is covered in a splatter of blood, and the guard looks as if he is about to bring it down again. Javert snaps out of his stupor then. He raises his hand in protest. “Hold! The man is harmless enough,” He says, although he doesn’t believe it himself. “He only has his words.”

“You cannot let them speak to you like that, Javert,” The guard says, indignant. He is panting, watching as 35796 spits on the ground, a tooth lands in the dust, cradled by a pool of blood.

35796 laughs, a rough fearsome thing, as he stares at his tooth in the dust. “Now that will only make it easier.”

Javert’s stomach twists in revulsion. He feels sick, can taste the bile in his throat, is eternally grateful when the chain gang begins to move again. His own hand finds his side and grips uselessly to the material, trying to find a sturdy handle. He looks up, sees brown eyes staring, feels a deep fury. “Eyes front 24601!”

* * *

 

The days are long and hot. It’s unbearable for the convicts, but still they persevere. Occasionally one drops unconscious from the heat. The guards pull them to the side, dump buckets of water on their faces until they wake, and then they are shoved straight back into the dirt and dust. Javert is among those grateful for the rains when they arrive. This part of France is notorious for seemingly endless showers that drape the nearby farmland in mud.

The convicts work on through the rain and the guards stand and watch. The laziest of the guards, unsurprisingly most of them except Javert and a stubborn few, lean under a parapet of rock. Away from their duties, watching the men from a distance, they share pouches of water that are laced with brandy and sometimes stronger spirits. Javert reports this behaviour the first chance he gets, but the prison commissioner dismisses his concerns and takes a swig from his own bottle. Javert is even less popular among the guards after that.

The smell of salt carries across on the rain and it stings Javert’s eyes. He pulls the brim of his hat down low and tries to ignore the pain of the hail. The guards call the day’s work to an end an hour early. The rocks seem to turn to clay in the convict’s hands and everyone is making slow work. It’s tedious for everyone, and even the convicts don’t put up complaint at the prospect of being turned back to the cells.

Javert sits on the edge of his bed in the living quarters, hunched over a boot in one hand and a rag in the other. His boots are caked with mud and silt and the rag grows ever filthier in his hand. He can hear the sounds of merriment beyond the doors of the guards living quarters as they celebrate a day finished early. They gamble, roll dice and play with unfinished sets of cards, knock back the rest of the alcohol in their water pouches. Javert finds the laughter irritating. He finds the whole unprofessional conduct irritating, but the commissioner is less than helpful, in fact he’s in there with the rest of the guards drinking with the best of them. Javert caught sight of the portly man with wire glasses and ruddy cheeks as he passed through, and disappointed would be an understatement of emotion.

Several minutes pass before the door to the chambers opens and one of the younger guards enters, he’s been assigned patrol duty on this day of early finishing. Javert looks up, surprised to see him back so early.

“There’s a flood,” The guard says casually, Dupois, Javert thinks his name is. His hands are thrust into his pockets and he doesn’t stand like a guard at all. “The prisoners are complaining.”

“Have you considered doing something about it?” Javert asks dryly as he switches to the other boot.

Dupois shrugs. “Shift’s up.”

He nods at Javert and strides past to join the other guards in their games. A merry cheer erupts from them, drifting through the open doorway for a few moments before it slams shut again. Javert considers for a moment, then sighs and pulls the boots on and reaches for his coat. His life has always been unfair and thus fair he has not complained about it. He simply does his job.

It’s more than a light flood. As Javert descends the stone steps to the cells the water rises still. He looks down at the freshly shining leather of his shoes, bites his lip, then steps into the water. There’ll be time to clean them again later, it’s not as if he has anything better to do.

Flood water spills through barred windows into the dark corridor, it rises up through the drains and pours through the cracks in the stone. The lower cells must be thigh deep in water already, and there are men trapped down there, locked in. Even more base than the rats on a sinking ship, for even the rats can move about the confines freely. He pats the loop of keys at his belt, checking it for security before descending even further.

He’s not sure what he’ll do when he reaches the cells, what he can do really, but he can at least listen to demands. Just listening can appease in many cases even if no further action is taken. It’s more appalling that he thought. The cells are shallow to begin with, some of the tall men stoop when the floors are dry, but now there is water up to convict’s thighs. He can see from his position slightly higher up on the stone steps.

He has to get them out, he knows this now. Even if it’s just to the cells on the higher floors. He can pack them in tight, at least they won’t drown. His uniform coat billows about him, light blue lost to the murky waters, and it’s tough to wade through towards the cells. A convict runs forward and grips the bars.

“Thank the heavens!” He exclaims, pressing his forehead to the metal and breathing in deeply through his nose. “We are saved!” Javert imagines the terror of a man chained by the foot as water rises around him. He wonders what this man’s crime is, squints at the damp number on his chest, at the initials ‘TFP’ branded on his shoulder where the loose material slips off and shows skin, ‘Travaux Forcés á Perpétuité; Hard labour for life.

None of them have been sentenced to execution, so Javert will keep them alive, it is only just. He raises his voice so the whole flooded corridor can hear. “The main gates of the prison are unbreached, they are guarded well, as are the cells above. Even if they were not, the chains on your feet will keep you from running. Stay back as I unlock these cells, you will be accommodated in the cells above, proceed up the stairs in an orderly fashion.”

He should not be doing this alone. It’s dangerous, any of these men could overpower him, but his duty will always come before his life. His duty is to protect and serve the law, ensure these convicts can carry out their sentences, and this they cannot do if they are found floating face down in the murky waters of the flood.

The convicts stand against the back of the cells, allow him to unlock the bars, and then they rush forward. Their chains are slung over their arms, but the weights are still hard to carry. Javert holds his breath, sure that they are charging him, but the drowning man has only eyes for air. They push past him, head for the stairs. Javert imagines the collection of wet and angry convicts that will wait him at the top once he is done here.

He is down to the last two cells, the air is stagnant here, held in a perpetual state of filth and rust. He fumbles with the key, turning it in the heavy lock, trying to ignore the desperate hungry stares of the convicts within. He is about to swing the bars open when he feels a sudden immense pain against his lower back. It lands in a harsh smack at the base of his spine and he trips and falls forward, one hand gripping the bars in front. He swings his head only to feel a fist connect hard with his face. His eyes blur, dizziness and panic cross his mind, he can still feel a rusty bar in his grip. He can make out the shadow of a man, large, overbearing, wielding a metal bar. The bar swings down, connects heavily on his shoulder and he loses his grip on the cell bars. He lands on his knees, the water now up to his chest. It’s freezing and it cools his lungs in an instant. He’s vaguely aware of putting out his hands to protect himself before fingers run roughly through his hair and curl into a fist.

Javert is slapped twice, one way and then the other, with such force that his head wills to turn at the strength but he’s held tight by the fist in his hair. Dazed, confused, blindly flailing, the fist shoves him face first into the water. He reaches out into the darkness, but there’s nothing to grip. The cold water makes his fingers number and he moves slowly, the ice against his face holds his brain still. He can’t think, can’t breathe. His foot makes contact with the floor and he tries to push up, but hands hold him down. He can feel more than two on him, there are several, he feels stupid, more than stupid. He’s going to die here in the water, held firm by convicts as ice flows through his veins and into his lungs. He holds on for as long as he can before his body is burning and willing him to take a breath. He gasps, a silent thing, and the water enters him. It’s painful, but then the pain dissipates into a certain calm. Javert can’t think, but he’s finding comfort in drowning, it’s a peaceful thing now. The vague thought that he’ll die because he tried to save lives briefly crosses his mind, but it doesn’t linger into the darkness.

* * *

 

His head hurts. His back hurts. His lungs are on fire.

Javert shifts as best he can in the darkness. He wishes God to be kind to him, but can tell by the pain that this is judgement. He’s tried, God knows he’s tried his best, and yet here he lies in flames. His whole body is burning hot as he coughs, expelling water. His eyes are open, but they’re blind, and he flails around, helpless and trying to find the light.

“He’s awake.”

The harsh words are punctuated by a sharp kick to his stomach. He whimpers and curls in on himself, trying to shield from the pain. Two kicks follow, simultaneously, and he’s powerless to stop them. He’s alive then, this is the mortal world. Images of rushing water come to him, but they pass quickly as rough palms come to his temples. They hold him firmly by the head, thumbs digging in and Javert has to follow them lest they pain him more.

“Wait!” Another voice, familiar, slimy, full of grit. Javert’s stomach twists and his heart sinks. “I want to see his eyes.”

Light comes so suddenly that Javert winces. It floods into his eyes as a thick piece of fabric is pulled off his face. It tugs at his hair, ruthlessly yanked away. Once he catches his breath and has blinked away the worst of it, Javert looks up into the eyes of 35796. The expression is mocking, he thinks he can make out a pout, a faux frown. He breathes deeply and tries to remain calm.

“I did give you a chance,” He says. Javert hears laughter from behind him and at the sides. He breaks eye contact to take in his surroundings. He’s in a cell, clean and dry, he can feel manacles on his wrists behind his back and another heavy chain wrapped around his right ankle. There is something heavy round his neck also. They have made him up like a prisoner. He squirms away from the glare and tries to back into a wall, but a boot is there to meet his back and it kicks him back to the room.

“No words for me? That’s a shame Javert, I do so love our little chats.”

Javert opens his mouth, tries to breathe, but the air slides roughly over his abused throat and drags from his lungs. He wheezes then breaks into a coughing fit. This is hilarious to the convicts surrounding him.

35796’s eyes rake over him, the smile has turned into a sneer, something dangerous, and Javert notices that he’s been stripped of most of his clothing. The stone is cold against his back and thighs, they’ve left him just the thin shirt and drawers. The ignominy of being stripped is worsened by the thought of them all doing it to his unconscious body. He tries to take stock of himself, feel for injuries or bruising, finding where else they might have touched him. He has no time to be humiliated right now, he has to focus on staying alive, something that may prove a difficult task.

35796’s fingers close on the metal of the collar that weighs on his neck and yanks him up. He trips onto his knees and a heavy hand falls on his shoulder to keep him there. He blinks away the water that fills his eyes as his breath is cut off for a few moments and holds his chin up, facing this man with all the dignity he can muster. He wonders where they found the chains, but then remembers the loop of keys that he held in his hand just before he was attacked. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a man holding his truncheon, and another the tarred rope. He swallows back bile.

Javert feels a hand touch his cheek, a mockery of gentleness, before it pinches hard. He flushes and tries to shake 35796 away. 35796 just clicks his tongue and smiles.

“No need to be shy, Javert. Everyone has their first time.”

It’s a guess, Javert knows, but it’s hit the mark. It must show on his face, flushed bright red now as he must be. 35796 slaps him, the sting smarts for a few seconds after before receding into a dull ache.

“This doesn’t have to be hard.” 35796’s thumb curls on Javert’s bottom lip, pulling it open, fingers digging into his jaw. He could bite down on that thumb, but chained up as he is with heavy hands on his shoulders he knows it would be a death sentence. So he seethes, allowing 35796 to push his fingers into his mouth, explore the insides of his cheeks with humiliating dexterity. He feels like the horse being bought at market while the new owner inspects its teeth. 35796 brings up another hand and cradles Javert’s face with it, pushing his fingers against is palm from inside Javert’s mouth. Then they push back further, brushing his throat, and Javert gags and retches. 35796 pulls back and laughs. The other convicts join in.

“Let’s put that mouth to good use, eh?”

Javert scowls, bites his bottom lip, spits on the floor. It doesn’t rid him of the taste of those fingers, it feels like dust rests on his tongue, he can taste sweat and bitter silt. He spits again. His mouth is still stained. Javert is not a fool, he knows this is not the worst taste to come.

35796 stands and pulls Javert forward by the collar then grips the sides of his head again. Hands flutter quickly over the crotch of his trousers and he pulls the rags down. Javert’s heart sinks, if not from thought of the act itself then from the sizable nature of the cock in front of him.

“No teeth, understand?” 35796 pulls up on Javert’s jaw, tilting it to face him. Those eyes are full of malice and hatred, Javert must represent hundreds of guards to him. He is not special, this is just a revenge he will never understand. The fingers grip tighter. “Answer me.”

Javert gives a shaky nod, it’s all he can manage. It’s not enough. Fingernails rake against his cheeks. “I want to hear your voice, give me a hint of your fear, Javert.”

“I…” Javert’s voice is tiny, it has never been this small before. “I understand.”

“No teeth. Repeat it.”

“No teeth.”

35796 takes advantage of Javert’s open mouth by shoving in roughly. He uses his fingers to pull back on Javert’s lips and then thrusts in deep. Javert gags, but 35796 doesn’t relent.

35796 runs a hand through Javert’s hair, twisting it tight. The absurd thought that he’s lost his hair ribbon somewhere comes to Javert and he relaxes his jaw slightly. His lips rub painfully along the length in his mouth as it thrusts deep in and out, too fast, too hard, and Javert’s throat is too dry to make it slick enough to be comfortable. His teeth brush against the surface of the man’s cock for the briefest of moments but it’s enough.

35796 pulls out and stares down at him. His chest goes cold and the air is sucked out of him, Javert’s lips tremble as he tries to form an apology, but the fist connects with his face before he can.

“I didn't take you for a fool,” The convict snarls as Javert gasps for air. A fist grasps at Javert’s throat and holds tight, squeezing the breath from him. Javert clinks the chains uselessly, a silent scream leaving his gaping mouth. His eyes bulge and he fears he will turn unconscious again, and who knows what state he will rise in this time. 35796 relents just in time, allowing Javert to fall to the cell floor. The stone hits his chest hard, winding him, but he isn't allowed time to rest before hands are grabbing him and pulling him upright.

35796 reaches for Javert’s jaw and yanks it open and shoves his cock back in without a word of warning. Javert coughs, stretching his mouth as wide as he can. Keeping his teeth at a distance is all he can think of, no other thought is allowed pass, his fists grasp at thin air, wrists held tight by the chains.

He squeezes his eyes tight shut, feeling tears pool behind them. A few escape and run down his cheeks, he begs for them to go unnoticed, but he hears the sound of laughter anyway. The convict’s rough thumbs are brushing over them, wiping the tears away, and Javert’s insides are twisting into knots in response to the sudden delicate motions.

Strong hands grip the manacles encircling his wrists from behind and yank upwards. He lurches forwards, shoulders wrenched back, he fears they’ll be pulled from his sockets.

The tension is too much, too painful, he whimpers then moans full out in pain at another sharp yank. The convict laughs and is spurred on to thrust in deeper and harder.

“Do you like this Javert?” The throaty laugh is painful to Javert’s ears. He tries to shake his head no but the grip is strong, his face feels hot, his mouth too full, everything clouds his mind and he cannot think.

“Perhaps you can take another.”

More laughter. It is becoming a familiar sound. He cannot take another, neither his dignity nor physicality can manage, but this doesn’t stop probing fingers entering his mouth alongside the heavy cock resting there. 35796 leans forward, forces his cock to brush the back of Javert’s throat, makes him lurch and retch again but this time he is so focused on keeping his jaw stretched wide.

His eyes are still tightly clenched shut and he doesn’t see the second convict beckoned forward. One can barely fit, but the man shoves in as much of his cock as he can. Javert chokes, his lips are stretched too far and he whimpers in pain. The second convict can only push in a small way, but it doesn’t stop him thrusting as much as he can.

Javert coughs, he can't push back because of the chains twisting his wrists high up on his back. He can't move forwards due to the two cocks shoved into his face.

One draws back and smears over Javert’s cheek leaving a filthy trail of precome and saliva in the tear stains. A thumb presses to his temple, pulls up on skin.

“Open your eyes Javert.”

He obeys because he must. His vision is entirely filled with two obscenely hard cocks, thighs, hips, nothing else. 35796 strokes himself then comes hard, streaks land across Javert’s face and he keeps his eyes open through it all, watching the whole horrible scene unfold.

The second convict sees the guard covered in the come of his fellow prisoner and comes with a hard groan. This time the cock stays in his mouth, and warmth spurts down his throat and coats the inside of his cheeks. Javert wants to vomit, but his mouth is still stoppered by the cock, now growing soft in his mouth.

“Very good,” 35796 practically purrs, loosening his grip on Javert’s hair, just enough so that it turns into the mockery of a stroke. “Our come on your face suits you. You need more.”

He beckons his friends and three come forward. He’s still held from behind by his chains, and now hands are reaching for the back of the heavyset iron collar. It holds him upright and Javert is reminded of the strict posture he holds himself to during the work day.

One of the convicts pulls open his slack jaw and forces himself in. The thrusting begins in earnest. The other two stand on either side, stroking themselves idly, and Javert kneels with his eyes wide and watches it all.

He cannot see how many are in the room, but once the man comes in his mouth another quickly replaces him. Some come inside his throat with satisfied groans, others pull out at the last moment and spurt on his face. They blend into one, faceless, nameless, he’s sure they're taking their second turns now.

He bears it as best he can, tries to maintain a quiet dignity, silent but for the occasional whimpers and moans. He is entirely passive in this. The cocks slam into his mouth and throat but he can't react other than to keep his jaw stretched. His mind is swimming from lack of oxygen. When the latest cock pulls out he takes a large gasp, not knowing when the next easy breath will be given to him.

His face is a mess of tears and spit and come when he has finally satisfied them all twice over and a few a third time. The hand on the chain relents and he’s allowed to fall onto his stomach. The floor hits him hard and his cheek presses to the ground but he doesn't care, he can only use this moment to breathe freely for the first time.

“Feel better, Javert? I do.”

The laughter echoes in his mind, loud over the coughs and splutters. He tries to kick the taste of sweat and come and filth out his mouth but it's an impossible task.

He wonders when they’ll find him - how they’ll find him. He wouldn't be surprised if any number of the guards joined in with this torment. His breath comes in as rags, sliding in and out of his bruised lungs. The weight of the earlier kicks to his chest and stomach is noticeable now.

He struggles to his knees, he'll face his torturers straight on, prove to them that they cannot break him. It's the only weapon he has left. A slap smacks him hard on the cheek and he’s knocked back to the floor.

“It looks to be a warm night Javert,” 35796 says casually. “We can make you more comfortable.”

Javert mouths ‘no’ and thinks a tiny noise might have escaped, but hands are already grabbing at his shoulders. They close in fists on the thin material of his shirt and the first tear is loud in his ear. He knows now why they didn't perform this act on his unconscious body. They wanted him to feel his clothes stripped from him, fully aware that not even his nakedness is sacred from their eyes. The cloth is flimsy and rips easily, his flailing almost aids it, but his eyes burn with redness and he feels wrung dry of tears.

“Tomorrow will be worse for you,” The convict snarls in his ear and Javert shudders. “It is kind to prepare you.”

Javert doesn’t know what this means and his mind isn't quick enough to process it. A burly set prisoner is edging close to him, twisting the truncheon in his fist, Javert’s own truncheon, and Javert still does not understand.

35579 takes the truncheon and runs it across Javert’s cheek, tracing it over the wet stains that rest there. He pulls it back and Javert stares at the thing, glistening wood, larger than anything he’s had forced on him so far. Then it dawns on him.

“N-no, please.” His voice has more traction now, still high pitched but stronger and desperate. The squeak provokes a round of jeers and the convicts are edging closer, sealing the circle. The nasty jaunts echo deep in his ears and hands fall on him, heavy and firm, preventing him from moving barely an inch. He’s roughly turned onto his front, someone presses a palm to the back of his neck and forces his face into the dirt, hands grab his ankles and they are spread wide. 35796 ghosts his palm over Javert’s bare and vulnerable arse before giving each cheek a mocking pinch. Then he brings his palm down in a hard slap. The action draws an excited reaction from the watching crowd so the convict does it again, and again. Dexterity allows him to bring the hand down in the same place each time and it's excruciating.

The pain almost makes Javert forget the threat from earlier, but then he feels two fingers harshly jam inside him and twist. He gasps in shock and pain, tries to squirm away but he’s held tight.

“If you don't want this just say Javert and I'll make sure to shove it in dry.”

“Oh God,” Javert says, lips almost kissing the stone floor, gasping out his barely audible prayer. “Please don't do this, leave me be.”

The convict merely laughs and takes the truncheon. He taps Javert on each inner thigh before squaring up to his entrance and forcing the truncheon deep inside. The weapon is slick, but it still feels like agony. The base is too wide and Javert is not prepared, has never ever been prepared, for something like this.

His vision is rimmed with blurry black edges and he bites hard on his bottom lip drawing blood. Automatically he finds himself tensing, but this draws out further pain and anguish, so he tries his best to relax. Its’s easier said than done but he finds a spot that aches dully but doesn't sting. Then 35796 twists the wood inside him, pushing it deeper inside, and again the pain is sharp and burning.

“You've always had a stick up your arse, Javert. Now we can all see it.”

Javert is murmuring something, tired and wholly desperate, voice raw. He’s already debased himself to begging and it hasn't worked, he has nothing left to use.

“Please, I'll do..” He takes a deep breath. “Anything, dear God anything, just take it out.”

He’s burning up inside, his brow is a sheen of sweat and it trickles down his temples mixing with the come and tears and spit.

“I think not.”

Javert screams in frustration and agony. He needs the thing out, needs it gone from him right now, it’s pushing at his insides and tearing him apart. His hands form fists around the chains and his toes curl. He’s trying to tense and relax at the same time and it’s not making it any better.

“See you in the morning, Javert.” 35796 pats him on the cheek then rises and leads the convicts out of the cell.

Javert waits a few moments then begins to twist and writhe, trying to force the thing from his body. It's too thick and he only succeeds in rubbing himself raw. For the first time he lets more than simple tears fall, he openly sobs, it wracks the last of his energy from him and his eyes are red and dry. Throat hoarse he grunts in frustration. It is somewhat satisfying, but does nothing to quell the furious pain that threatens to burn him up. The rest of him is cold, away from the fire and brimstone the stone is damp and freezing and it presses against his chest. Strangely he thinks of the work he'll miss with a cold or fever, and how much they'll dock his pay for it. He's feverish already, thinking absurdly, and still there is the concentrated hellfire.

The chains clink with every movement, reminding him of his humiliating entrapment. Surely the convicts never felt such shame at being laden with heavy chains, not if they deserved it. Javert doesn't want to think right now, he doesn't want his worldview uprooted, not like this.

The bars of the cell rattle and he assumes it is the convicts come back to jeer at him. He hasn't the strength to struggle or plead with them to leave him alone. But the taunts don't come, instead the cell door slides open and footsteps lead towards him. They stop by his face and Javert sees ragged shoes, covered in the dust of the courtyard, meaning it is not his saviour. This man is not a guard. A hand presses against his shoulder and Javert jerks sharply. The sudden touch and subsequent lurch jolts the truncheon inside him and he lets out an unstoppable scream. The hand retreats quickly yet the imprint remains on Javert's skin.

The hand grips the truncheon and Javert lets out a whispered plea, readying himself for the pain as the truncheon is inevitably driven further inside him. He cannot tell, his insides are so raw and burned up, it feels like nothing and everything at once. Until suddenly everything feels inexplicably cool. He feels empty, almost willing for something, anything, to fill up that space so the sudden change between full to the brim and completely empty isn't so hard.

The wood lands with a clatter on the stone floor and rolls into a corner. The man above Javert lets out a grunt of disgust, then clears his throat. "I'm sorry this has happened to you."

Javert can't process the words, they file through one ear and out the other, not enough to appease. No words will ever be enough. Javert wishes he had the use of his hands so he could cover his face, at the very least he could wipe away the filth, the telling remnants that men have been here and have used him.

He hears the splash of water. It rings in his ears, as does every sound, and then something cool trickles over his neck. The man is wringing a cloth above him and then rough woven material presses against his cheeks, wipes in slow circles. Javert closes his eyes and breathes deeply, he moves with the hand that washes him, unable to find the words to argue this ritual which is itself humiliating.

Strong hands roll him off his stomach and help him to sit up. One touch of his tortured backside on the stone has Javert gasping in pain, so the man guides him to a kneeling position. Even that is painful. Javert cannot tell when the rough cloth is replaced with rough hands. One moment a rag is passing across his cheeks and cleaning away the sin and stains, and the next bare skin is cradling him.

"I'm sorry."

That voice. It doesn't help. It only serves to make Javert sink further into his shame, that this should ever have happened is abysmal, this fearful twisting of order and hierarchy. The nature of it disgusts him. This man, this convict, he is no better than the rest. Javert does not know whether the voice belongs to one of the nameless faceless cocks that was shoved between his lips. Perhaps the voice is attached to hands the grabbed and pulled at his hair or pinched at his cheeks or stole touches from skin that had never known touched before.

Javert raises his head, blinks away the water and stares. The eyes he sees are so calm, brown and yielding, kind. Almost. Yet they still belong to a beast, a convict, and Javert forces himself to remember this.

"2..46-..."

The man puts his fingers to Javert's lips, silently telling him he doesn't have to finish. Javert finds himself accepting this; accepting orders from a convict.

"I'm so sorry."

"Please," Javert says around the fingers that touch him so gently. "Please stop saying that."  
The apologies hurt. Sincerity has no place here, not after what he has just experienced. He'd prefer rough touches. In fact, he'd prefer it if 24601 was just like the rest of them, it is unkind of the convict to be so kind to him. He should take what he wants in revenge, take pieces of Javert, and then it will be up to Javert to build himself up again. He wants to owe nothing to this man, not even base simple thanks.

"It's just," The man continues, shoulders yielding, still apologetic in both tone and body language. "I do not have the key. I can only wash you."

"I do not need that," Javert says quickly. "Why are you here?"

"You didn't deserve that."

Javert breathes in sharply and lets the air out through his mouth with a hiss. "How do you know what I do and do not deserve? Get away from me!" He shifts suddenly like a wounded animal in a cage and 24601 jumps back. Javert regrets this instantly, he feels naked without the tender touch and he wants it back. "Have you alerted a guard?"

"I will. I thought you might prefer to be clean and covered before they come."

Javert lets out a short bark of a laugh. He has no shame now. Every prisoner in the cell block has seen his shame and taken advantage of it. This convict should have done so to, it is as much his right as theirs. They are interrupted by shouts from the end of the corridor, heavy footfalls that belong to boots not shoes made of rags, the clear calls of guards.

24601 does not move and Javert is forced to watch his dark eyes, see the shadows flit and dance there, until the guards are upon the cell.

"You! Get away from him!"

24601 doesn't move, doesn't break the gaze. It takes three guards to pull him back, a fourth to yank him into submission, a fifth to kick him in the stomach and deliver a blow to his head with a butt of the rifle. Javert doesn't stop any of it. Another guard is at his wrists and ankles with the key, the collar is lifted, and with it the weight of the punishment. Javert watches 24601 as he is beaten into the stone, knowing he should speak up. This is not their man, this man has helped him, and yet at the same time this man has not helped at all. 24601 takes his beating quietly and Javert watches in despair.

 

* * *

 

 

Javert paces the room. It is small, serviceable, full of nothing but instruments of torture, but that is all he needs at present. The man before him has his face hidden in the rough splintered wood of the cross, his back is bare, a plain canvas, and his wrists are pulled wide by chains. It is only right that Javert has been allowed to deliver this punishment. Some of the guards wanted to watch. They wanted to see the fierce guard who was too kind and has only now learned that it is better to deliver justice. The broken guard has found safety in justice and now he will unleash it.

Javert pulls the corded rope between his hands, experimentally swings at the floor. Then swings at the man chained to the cross. A knot lands squarely in the convict's lower back with a horrible crack. The man does not cry out. His silence angers Javert, and so Javert swings again. He will lash this man until he speaks, until he cries, until he screams, and Javert will not yield even then.

He swings with vigour, using all his strength, throwing down the force of each blow with an arm that has never whipped before. What a fitting start to his life of deliverance. He will punish the man who helped him because it is his right to do so. Every mark he makes on 24601's back is a red slash, a dark wound, the mark of a man who has sinned. In whipping the man Javert makes him the sinner, using all his fury to condemn the man chained to the cross. There might as well be nails through his palms.

They unofficially charged him with twenty lashes. It isn't enough, he must have more penance, Javert will ensure the man's back is bloodstained and running before the session is up.

He is halfway through when he sees 24601 raise his head, open his mouth, something barely a whisper escapes his lips. Javert cries out in frustration, whips the man harder several times. Bruises are already forming, his back is smeared with blood, it covers the rope, splatters the walls with each stroke.

Javert stops, comes closer, puts a palm on the convict's shoulder, splaying his fingers in the blood there. It stings, it provokes a reaction. Javert is momentarily satisfied. "What did you say?" His voice is a hiss, fierce and sharp. 24601 turns his head, first to the sky as if pleading to the heavens, then to Javert. His eyes are wide, brown, innocent. Javert forces himself to stare back.

"I forgive you," 24601 whispers.

Javert screams. It is a furious cry, and 24601 winces, turns back to press his face into the wood, braces himself against the coming blows. Javert whips until his arm aches, until his whole body is tired, until he can't see any skin left on the man that isn't red.

Javert didn't want to be saved. He didn't need to be saved. And now he will prove it. It isn't enough, it will never be enough. The kindness was cruelty, a humiliating crime, the convict should have enacted petty justice when he had the chance. 24601's head falls limp, the man's unconscious. Javert lands a final blow before collapsing against the closest wall, buries his face in his hands and begs that forgiveness is enough to save him.


End file.
